A Shroud of Leaves Page 2

  The pathologist took a few more pictures, the flash whitening the skin.

  The sound of a keening, animal cry reached Sage. She jumped and looked around. ‘What’s that?’ The garden was waist high with bracken and brambles in places. The sky was darkening, the clouds gathering a purple tinge as the March daylight faded. Technicians were pulling the tent over the grave, putting more lights in place.

  Sage stood awkwardly, making sure her booties didn’t touch the grave edge, and followed Trent away from the burial. A few gulps of air got her nausea under control. The wailing had turned to wrenching sobs, coming from a huddle of people beyond police tape that was keeping press and locals at bay. A woman was supported by a bearded older man, a teenage girl beside them. The girl turned her head to stare at Sage, her expression blank. The woman screamed again, then subsided into hoarse sobs. The man was crying, the lights catching the tears on his face.

  ‘Family,’ said Trent, his lips tight. ‘This is the hard bit.’ He snapped a few pictures of the grass around him.

  ‘How did they even know? I mean it might not be their daughter.’

  ‘The radio and TV reported that a body had been found and a road sealed off three hours ago. The family recorded an appeal with the press last night.’ Trent frowned. ‘The psychologists will be looking at that, frame by frame.’

  ‘I suppose they have to assume the family knows something.’

  Trent grimaced. ‘Do you know what percentage of child murders are done by parents? We have to be careful not to give away anything we find out. Everyone’s a suspect at this point. Obviously, the owner of the house. Also, teachers, friends, neighbours – but mostly parents or their partners. You better get back before the press get a picture.’ He moved away, taking more pictures of the crime scene as he went.

  A scuffle behind her made Sage look towards the house. Two police officers were wrestling a tall, heavy-set man from the front door to the road. He fought them, falling onto his knees until they almost carried him along, sweating and struggling. DCI Lenham helped drag him towards the police vehicles.

  ‘Mr Chorleigh, this isn’t helping. Let us get your statement, then you can come home,’ Lenham said as the big man shook him off.

  A small dog barked around them until one officer nudged it hard with his foot and it yelped.

  ‘The little bugger bit me,’ he said, and Chorleigh swore and fought the officers until they snapped handcuffs on his wrists.

  Sage moved forward and crouched down and called to the dog. ‘Here, puppy. Over here, there’s a good boy.’ It froze, watching her, then trotted over. She caught it by its collar. ‘Who deals with the dog?’ she asked, but Lenham was pulling the man to his feet.

  ‘RSPCA or kennels,’ he said, out of breath. ‘If we can’t find a relative or neighbour.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong!’ the man howled, fighting them. ‘And it’s not his fault.’ He was dressed in several layers of old jumpers with a shabby coat over the top. It was hard to guess his age; he looked old and ill but could have been as young as mid-forties.

  A young policewoman held out a tattered lead and Sage clipped it on. There was something about the man’s fear for his dog that touched her. ‘I’ll make sure he’s looked after. Is it a he?’ It was difficult to tell under matted hair.

  Watching her, Chorleigh seemed to calm down a little. ‘Hamish. He’s only two, he’s a bit boisterous. He’s allergic to fish.’

  ‘I’ll tell them.’ The man passed quite close to Sage as he was hauled to the police vehicles. In the distance someone shrieked, a man bellowed – perhaps they had caught sight of the suspect. Sage picked the dog up. It was a white terrier, with long greasy fur. It strained to reach its owner, to lick his face. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he started to say as he was dragged into the van. ‘I haven’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘You said that last time,’ Lenham muttered under his breath. He lifted his hand to touch the dog, then pulled it away. ‘He’s filthy. You’ll need a clean suit.’

  Sage had a good look at the front paws of the animal. ‘You’d think he would have dug around the body. As – you know, it started to smell. They have a great nose for decomposition.’

  ‘Good point.’ Lenham waved to one of his colleagues. ‘Get the dog taken over to the station and examined in case he touched the body.’ He turned back to Sage. ‘How’s the retrieval coming on?’

  ‘Trent is just taking a few more location shots while we work on the grave itself. Megan says she’ll take the body to the mortuary in the morning at the earliest; we’ll be working late. There’s a lot to document.’ She hesitated. ‘What did you mean by “last time”?’

  ‘Teenager went missing in 1992, right here. Alistair Chorleigh was the last person to see her. She was never found.’ His voice was clipped. ‘We need that body if we’re going to solve this murder. You’d better get on with it, then.’

  Sage walked back to the tent, changed her forensic suit for a clean one, and knelt by the corpse again. She reached for a few more leaves at the side of the body and brushed the girl’s hip. The distant sobbing of the woman at the gate was chilling, and the flickering lights brought movement to the gleaming eyes of the dead girl.

  2

  ‘I first heard of Chorleigh House and its ancient burial mounds from my friend, P. Chorleigh, Balliol. I intend to help him excavate the barrows with as little disruption as possible, using my training in archaeology. We hope to add to the sketchy knowledge of earthworks within the Royal Forest.’

  Journal of Edwin Masters, Saturday 22nd June 1913

  The invitation to excavate an ancient barrow had come at the right time, at least for me. My mother, laid low by a fever, was being nursed by her sister. There was no room for me in our rooms. Instead, I would have been forced to stay in my study in Oxford, and survive on what little work there was clerking for a firm of solicitors. Instead, I was greeted by Peter Chorleigh’s excited note, dashed off with a rough sketch of what he believed to be Bronze Age earthworks. They were in the grounds of his family home in Hampshire, but he had never thought of them as so old or interesting before. I didn’t hesitate, but wrote a letter to my mother and bought a railway ticket to Southampton. I changed there for the halt at Holmsley in the New Forest.

  My first view of Chorleigh House was when the driver dropped me off in his horse and trap. It had been a long rattle over forest roads to the house, the drive arching in through a double gate with massive gateposts. The house sat side-on to the road beside a huge striped lawn and shrub beds already covered with roses in bud. The property itself was built of grey stone, the front door under a portico at the top of three shallow steps. Pairs of windows looked out over the garden, and I could see a couple ran through the house to give a view of treetops and sky beyond. A grass tennis court appeared to run along the furthest side of the house beyond an outbuilding or two.

  ‘Here’s Chorleigh,’ the driver told me, pulling his horse up on the wide circle of gravel in front of the house. ‘That’ll be three shillings.’

  I gave him four; I had enjoyed the drive through the forest from Holmsley Station.

  ‘I suppose you must get a bit of work from the Chorleighs?’ I said, dragging my leather bag off the back.

  ‘Not much,’ he answered, somewhat curtly. ‘They got motors. Bloody things, shouldn’t be allowed in the forest, that’s what I say. They scare the horses. Two ponies had to be shot last month after they were run down.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ I lifted my satchel off and stood back. ‘Thank you, anyway. I plan to stay a month, but perhaps I shall see you when I leave.’

  ‘You can get me through the station, they’ve got a telephone there.’ He snapped out a number and started to turn his horse towards the road. Then he stopped, and curiously, looked back. ‘If you need me in a hurry, my niece, Tilly, she’ll always get a message to me. She works in the kitchen here. Mr Chorleigh, he’s a hard man. He’s got a
bit of a temper.’

  ‘I’m sure everything will be fine, but thank you.’ I was baffled by the offer, but thanked him anyway. Then Peter appeared in the open doorway at the front of the house and yelled, ‘Edwin!’ and I was swept off my feet in a bear hug.

  Peter is a year younger than me as I started my degree late, and we didn’t seem to have much in common. But in the last years, as we studied our degrees and shared a college, we became close. ‘Comrades under fire,’ Peter called it, as we shivered under the scathing criticism of one of our teachers, the great Sir Charles Latterby. Now our essays are marked, our final examinations are over and we are to spend the summer putting our knowledge to the test before I must return to my mother’s house and find suitable employment.

  He led me through a large door into a spacious hallway, with two staircases curving up to a half-landing above.

  ‘Peter!’ a voice exclaimed, and I turned to see a young woman who resembled him so much I knew she must be his sister.

  ‘Oh, Molly, there you are!’ He hugged her briefly, and for a moment their faces were close together. She looked like a delicate, feminine version of him, and he caught her arm to draw her towards me. ‘This is Edwin, my closest friend from Oxford.’

  Molly held out her hand; I noticed it had smears of paint or ink on it. She almost withdrew it, but I clasped it anyway. She blushed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. I could see an older man behind her, as dark as his children were fair and even taller than Peter.

  ‘My father, Mr James Chorleigh,’ Peter said, stooping to pat the two dogs that curved around his feet. ‘Edwin Masters, Father.’

  I shook Mr Chorleigh’s hand.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘Peter, get your friend settled in, then go and see your mother.’ He turned to me, ‘I know you won’t mind my wife not greeting you. She has been unwell.’ I knew she had been ill; a nervous collapse, Peter had said. The youngest child of the family had died from diphtheria the year before, a terrible time for them all, and Mrs Chorleigh had taken to her bed. ‘We are looking forward to your historical discoveries in the grounds. But I don’t want my wife disturbed.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ I said. ‘And we won’t spoil your grounds too much.’

  He nodded to me and turned away. Peter hefted my leather bag.

  ‘Come up, Ed, I’ll show you your room.’

  ‘Then come down for tea,’ Molly said, blushing again.

  As we walked up to the landing, I could see it was beautifully lit from above by a domed lantern in the ceiling. It shone on the polished parquet flooring below. ‘This is lovely,’ I managed to say before he caught my arm and dragged me towards one wing.

  ‘Nice enough. My grandfather put in the wooden flooring downstairs; it’s better with the dogs than carpets everywhere.’ He dragged my case into one of the bedrooms. ‘I’ve put you in here, next to me. My mother is on the other side of the house; she likes the quiet. Now, wash up and come down for some tea,’ he said, putting the bag on the bed. ‘There’s the bathroom across the hall, there’s a towel somewhere – ah, here. I’ll go and see Mother.’ He grimaced. ‘Poor Molls, she’s become Mother’s companion. She doesn’t get out much since Claire died.’

  ‘That can’t be easy, at her age.’

  He leaned against the doorjamb. ‘That’s why you’re here. You will liven us all up with your discoveries and scholarship.’

  I almost laughed at that. ‘Me, old sobersides, to liven anyone up?’

  ‘Well, you’ll liven me up anyway.’ He grasped my arm briefly. ‘I’ve missed you, Ed.’

  3

  Tuesday 19th March, this year

  It had been a long evening’s work uncovering the body and Sage didn’t get back to her mother’s house in Winchester until past midnight. She half registered that Nick was asleep in the spare bed and Max, her eleven-month-old son, startled in his cot when she walked in.

  It was a pleasure to lift him, feel him snuggle into her. It didn’t seem possible that River Sloane had ever been alive like this, but the idea made tears gather in the corners of her eyes. Max laid his head against her shoulder and subsided back into sleep. He smelled of shampoo and clean pyjamas and baby and if Nick hadn’t been taking up half the bed, she probably would have snuck Max in with her. She nestled him back between his soft toys and covered him with a blanket. He turned his head and whimpered and she stroked his back.

  ‘How did it go?’ Nick’s whisper just reached her, but she waited until the baby was completely asleep before she answered.

  ‘OK. It was all right,’ she murmured back, sliding out of her clothes. She ached from kneeling over the grave for so long. ‘Sad.’ She couldn’t face looking in her bag for more clothes so decided to sleep in her T-shirt. When she slid under the duvet Nick reached for her and curved his body against her back. He was warm; she realised how cold she’d got. ‘Go back to sleep. Love you.’

  He buried his face in her hair and kissed her neck. ‘Mm. You too.’

  * * *

  Sage woke with a start; she must have crashed straight into sleep, and it took a few moments to work out where she was. Mum’s house, the body in the woods, Maxie, Nick. She checked her phone: barely six-thirty, it was still gloomy outside. A tangled memory of running, a body in a well and the girl in the leaves haunted her.

  The bed next to her was empty, as was the cot. Nick must have taken the baby downstairs with him. Sage could shower and dress in peace. She could just hear the odd burst of conversation from downstairs, laughter, as she got ready for work. Mum loved Max and he adored her. His giggle met Sage as she walked towards the kitchen at the back of the old terraced house.

  Nick appeared in the doorway with a spoon, holding the baby. ‘Put Maxie in his high chair, will you? And taste this.’

  She smiled at Max and tasted the porridge. ‘That’s delicious. Hi, baby boy. Do you want some maple syrup like Mummy?’

  Max lifted his arms towards her. It was still a wonder to be able to hold him, feel his weight against her. He was just starting to wobble across the room on his feet, which to Sage was a small miracle every day.

  ‘He eats it as it comes, like me,’ Nick scoffed. ‘It’s just you that needs to drown it in sugar.’

  Max waved and burbled something to her. She pulled the high chair out from the wall beside the table. ‘Really, Maxie, are you hungry? Sit in your chair and Nick will get you something to eat. Where’s Sheshe?’

  ‘Just putting the bin out.’ Nick carried bowls over. He put some toast soldiers on the tray for Max to pick up and drop and throw about, and handed Sage a baby spoon. ‘It’s your turn to get covered. I was still getting porridge out of my hair at lunchtime yesterday.’

  Sage’s mother, Yana, walked in and opened her arms for a hug with her daughter. ‘You’re OK?’ she asked after a moment, pushing Sage back to study her face. ‘Saw the case on the news. Terrible.’ It always amazed Sage that Yana had never lost her Kazakh accent, despite living in the UK for nearly forty years.

  ‘Very sad,’ Sage said, looking at them. Her favourite people, all together. ‘How’s Maxie been?’

  ‘No trouble, never.’ Her mother beamed. ‘Nick and me, we took him to park.’

  ‘When do you have to go back to the crime scene?’ Nick mumbled through a spoonful of porridge.

  ‘I need to be there early. Maxie?’ The baby opened his mouth like a bird and took the porridge off the spoon. He slapped the toast on the tray, some of the bits flying across the table.

  Sage’s phone pinged and she reached for it. Trent. Check the 24-hour news.

  ‘Sorry, Sheshe.’ She switched the small TV on over Yana’s protests. ‘It’s just work.’

  She could hear Nick talking to Max. A couple were on a long table flanked by police. Both looked exhausted, red-eyed with fear, especially the father. A voiceover was dispassionate. ‘On Sunday 17th March, Owen and Jenna Sloane appealed for the safe return of their daughter, River, who went missing on Saturday afternoon after 12
.30.’

  ‘If anyone knows anything, please let the police know,’ the woman said. ‘We’re just so worried. She didn’t even tell us where she was going.’ Her face was creased with anxiety, fear, threaded with hope. The father buried his head in his hands and was comforted by his wife. A group portrait flashed up, of the smiling parents, River, another young girl she recognised from outside the garden at Chorleigh House, and a small boy. It took Sage a moment to equate the family portrait with the still, grey body in the leaves. Sage couldn’t imagine how the family were feeling. It must have been terrifying being caught up in a room full of journalists and police; the cameras showed the mother collapsing in tears. The banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen caught Sage’s eye. ‘Body found in New Forest…’ The shot cut away from the appeal to the distant five-bar gate of Chorleigh House. ‘Police are unable to confirm the body found at an address in the New Forest…’ She switched the TV off.

  ‘That’s awful. I can’t imagine how the parents are coping,’ Nick said. ‘How long will you need to be at the site?’ Nick shook his head at Max, who was cramming his fingers into his mouth after the porridge. ‘You’re going to need a bath, little man.’

  Sage gulped a mouthful of tea. ‘They were there yesterday, crying behind the police barrier. I don’t know how long it will go on for. We hadn’t even finished uncovering…’ She looked at Max. ‘Retrieving the victim. Then we have a lot of lab stuff to do.’

  ‘You do remember I’m going away too?’

  ‘Of course, that’s why I asked Mum to babysit Max.’ Which was all true, it’s just that where he was going and the reason had slipped her mind. ‘Conference, right?’

  He looked back at her, his face grave. ‘No, not a conference. I’m going to see a team ministry. It’s a particularly successful model for other deprived rural areas. I want to see how it works. For the future, if I go for another job.’